


While you were sleeping (I was baking)

by doomed_spectacles



Series: Good Omens Lockdown Ficlets [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Baked Goods, Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Fluff, Good Omens Lockdown, M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, expressing love through baked goods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23969854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: Crowley oversleeps his lockdown alarm and finds the evidence of Aziraphale's new quarantine hobby all around him.Crowley wandered into his office, unsurprised to see a dozen or so boxes covering every available surface and many on the floor. They varied in size, shape, and wrapping, though Aziraphale seemed to vacillate between simple elegant ribbons in bold colors and the most frou-frou gauzy getup Crowley had seen this side of the Great British Bake Off.He opened the enormous box on his desk. An entire German chocolate cake greeted him, with delicate frosting swirls around the edges and generous dollops of coconut topping. The chocolate dripped down the sides was gleaming and, frankly, quite impressive."This cake is not German at all. It is, however, scrumptious. I know you're a fan of coconut, though you may deny it. I was there in Brazil that time, you'll remember. I saw you slurp down a dozen glasses of batida that night we ended up on on the beach with no shoes.11 July"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Lockdown Ficlets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791961
Comments: 30
Kudos: 199
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	While you were sleeping (I was baking)

**Author's Note:**

> That lockdown video, y'all
> 
> Update:  
> Now with a companion fic with Aziraphale's POV, located [HERE.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710734)

[September 2020]

Crowley made a series of noises that were closer to anything properly demonic than he’d made in decades, dramatic roar at the end of the world notwithstanding. His elbows popped and his neck didn’t turn very far to one side. Something could’ve been growing in his mouth for how bad it tasted. Hygiene and personal appearance was much improved since the last time he’d slept this long, so he spared a miracle on his corporation’s body odor and general state of disarray. Except the hair. You couldn’t fake slept-in hair this good.

He almost stepped on the first one.

A box roughly the size of a pocket watch wrapped in plain paper tied with twine sat on the floor next to his bed. Crowley didn’t blink, but he considered it. The box didn’t move. He untied the string and carefully unwrapped the paper, folded it, and set it aside. Inside was one cookie and a note. 

_This is called a snick-er-doodle.  
~A.Z. Fell, Esq._

Crowley blinked.

The next box was on his nightstand next to his alarm, which had been smashed to bits with a hammer. The hammer was lying next to the expensive Japanese machine, now worthless. He’d slept in, apparently.

Inside this box, held together with gold and silver ribbons neatly tied into an intricate bow, was a slice of cake. Upon further inspection, it appeared to be made of carrots and raisins. Crowley made a face and set it aside. The note included in this box was greasy, having absorbed some of the cream cheese icing.

_Do you remember when they started cultivating carrots? I think I prefer them in stew, myself.  
~Aziraphale  
3 May_

Crowley groaned and looked at his watch, then let out a series of curses that contained words in languages that were both alive, dead, and had never really lived outside the tongues of those who would later to be considered ‘speaking in tongues’ but were really just possessed by demons who’d lost a bet. He’d really overslept, then.

He carefully stepped around the trail of boxes leading out of his bedroom. The one on his kitchen counter was filled with muffins, dated the 11th of June. On top of his refrigerator, he found scones from the 16th, more scones from the 20th inside the oven, and a third set of scones from the 23rd of June next to his espresso maker. Aziraphale had gone through a phase, it seemed.

Crowley wandered into his office, unsurprised to see a dozen or so boxes covering every available surface and many on the floor. They varied in size, shape, and wrapping, though Aziraphale seemed to vacillate between simple elegant ribbons in bold colors and the most frou-frou gauzy getup Crowley had seen this side of the Great British Bake Off.

He opened the enormous box on his desk. An entire German chocolate cake greeted him, with delicate frosting swirls around the edges and generous dollops of coconut topping. The chocolate dripped down the sides was gleaming and, frankly, quite impressive.

_This cake is not German at all. It is, however, scrumptious. I know you're a fan of coconut, though you may deny it. I was there in Brazil that time, you'll remember. I saw you slurp down a dozen glasses of batida that night we ended up on on the beach with no shoes.  
11 July_

Crowley set the note aside and carefully rewrapped the cake box. Aziraphale had worn sandals and a floppy hat. That time in Brazil. Crowley had teased him mercilessly about sunburn and freckles and angel kisses, then tried to hide the flush on his own face when the angel had rolled up the legs of his trousers to avoid them getting wet in the surf.

In the plant room, he found five more boxes. Crowley gathered them on his living room floor and said, "well then," to no one in particular.

He opened the boxes, one by one, scratching his head and grinning to himself, humming a tune he'd never ever admit to knowing.

There were boxes of naan bread with garlic and cheese, boxes of thick spicy loaves that reminded him of women in markets in days long gone. There were date breads and meat pies. Several variations on cheesecake.

A cold medicine-pink box was so soggy the bottom had melted and he deposited it in the sink at arm's length. Aziraphale hadn't gotten the temperature right in the miracle for the mochi ice cream box. Shame, because Crowley actually liked mochi.

He folded the wrapping paper and gathered the notes. Put them in date order. Thought his heart might finally bust after six thousand years.

The notes varied. Some were short messages about the contents of the boxes, miracled to hold the perfect conditions for the delicacies within. Some rambled, telling Crowley things he already knew. About Aziraphale. About the world. Things Aziraphale had discovered while alone in his shop, waiting.

Several were long enough that Crowley could pinpoint the moment Aziraphale had popped open a bottle of something. And the moment he stopped giving a damn about propriety and started writing for real. And the moment his faculties gave way to whatever he was drinking.

A red wrapped box with a delicate string held a single apple tart. The note wasn't dated but Crowley knew right where it belonged. He folded the little piece of paper and tucked it in his pocket instead of keeping it with the others.

_One year._

The very last note was attached to, appropriately enough, a devil's food cake.

_WAKE UP, you silly demon_  
-A  
8 Sept 

Crowley miracled a trunk into being. He opened the lid and conjured a picnic blanket, plates, cloth napkins. Champagne flutes. He thought about adding candles, then shuddered and banished them to the ether. Champagne. The boxes of desserts found themselves tucked neatly inside the trunk, which helpfully expanded on the inside to accommodate them.

He checked his hair before he left the flat, but made few adjustments. Checked his phone, then miracled a black cloth mask for appearance's sake.

The bell rang at A.Z. Fell and Company twenty minutes later, but the sign remained closed for weeks after the restrictions on bookshops lifted.


End file.
